


me and you, we got this

by soldmyscars



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: A/B/O Dynamics (#35), Alternate Universes, Angst, Community: 1sentence, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Schmoop, Sexual Content, lots of things!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldmyscars/pseuds/soldmyscars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fifty prompts and fifty sentences to go with 'em. set alpha for the 1sentence community on lj.</p>
            </blockquote>





	me and you, we got this

**Author's Note:**

> this set is the first of five available. i'm not sure if i'll do the others because i'm not thrilled with how this one turned out. it's kind of a mess. beta readers everywhere are probably crying. sorry, guys!
> 
> some sentences fit with canon and some sort of do/sort of don't. some of them don't fit anywhere and some are completely au. try and go with it. :]
> 
> the title comes from 'afterlife' by ingrid michaelson

#o1 | co̧m̷fo͡rt : The Gallagher kitchen is never empty; there's always somebody filling up the space at the table or the island or in front of the stove, and it's weird to be part of that now, to have people around who look at him like they're okay seeing him there with their brother, like maybe he could be a semi-decent person instead of trash, hesitantly included in a place that's so alive and welcoming when at his house everything he touches feels dead and he's got nothing but dirty dishes to wake up to.

#o2 | k̕iss̴ : Mickey's been lying in his cell bunk for hours, staring at the worn picture he keeps hidden deep in his mattress, ignoring his own disgruntled face to the left of Ian's and remembering how badly he'd wanted to kiss Gallagher that night, imagining all the ways he could've done it and the all the possible reactions he could've received, if only he'd just picked up his fucking balls and leaned over.

#o3 | so͜ft : Dope's always made him sleepy – it takes a nice, fat joint to knock him out flat – and Ian's next to him when it happens this time, edges of his vision going fuzzy and his head lolling back at an unnatural angle on the couch; he's just about gone when Ian starts pulling on his shoulders, and he grumbles out a curse, tells him to fuck off and relaxes only once he's left alone again, nuzzling his face into the warmth between Ian's thighs and sighing as he drifts off (Ian lets out a quiet laugh, cradling his head and looking down at him fondly, but Mickey's already dead to the world).

#o4 | pa̛in : Broken bones, scrapes, and bruises are everyday occurrences for Mickey Milkovich; the pain is so familiar that it's almost comfortable in its discomfort (the rare quiet days make him itch, uneasy and suspicious), but this aching in his chest and this tightness in his throat and this burning beneath his eyelids as Ian walks away from him... this hurts like no pain he's felt before.

#o5 | pot͟atoe̸s : "You're worse than Liam sometimes, I swear to God," Ian says as he watches Mickey eat his fries and get a smear of ketchup on his cheek, his tone teasing, and when he reaches forward with his thumb outstretched like he's about to wipe Mickey's face for him like somebody's goddamn _mother_ , Mickey glares at him and snipes, "You come any closer and I'll bite that fuckin' finger right off, Gallagher," and ignores the way Ian's eyes crinkle up like he doesn't believe him, even as he drops his hand and rests it on the center of the table instead.

#o6 | r̢ain̵ : Ian's sitting on the front porch when Mickey gets to his place, hood up and shoulders hunched, forehead resting on his knees as the rain pelts down on him; the kid is a tall, wiry fuck but in that moment he looks like he could fold himself up and fit in Mickey's pocket, and when Mickey approaches him and he looks up with rainwater clinging to his eyelashes like tears, and says, "I need you, please," Mickey stares at him, swallows, and replies, "Okay."

#o7 | c̴hoc͠olate̶ : "You put chocolate sauce in your coffee," Ian comments, peering at Mickey over the rim of what he thought was _his_ mug of bitter black in surprise; Mickey snatches it out of his grip, coffee sloshing out the side, and Ian licks his lips and leans back against the counter, smirking crookedly as he adds, "Cute... but too bad it hasn't sweetened up your personality much."

#o8 | h̴a̴p̶p͏i̕ness͢ : The nightmares aren't the worst because they're inevitable reality – the world falling down around him, being hunted and drowning in a pool of his own blood, dying young and alone and in the dark – no, the ones that are the worst are the softest and the sweetest, the ones with smiles and laughs and easy affection through sunlit blinds, with touches that feel like love and whispered words he'll never get to keep. 

#o9 | t҉e̡le͝phone : Ian's phone rings at 11:59, slightly too fast breathing on the other end of the line against his slightly too slow breathing when he picks up, and he doesn't know the number but he knows it's Mickey because they do this every night – they do this just before midnight and it doesn't matter where they are or what they're doing – and they never say a word to each other, no hellos and no goodbyes, but they don't hang up until their hands and mouths have fallen slack in sleep or the sun rises the next day.

#1o | e̴ar͘s : Mickey wishes that Ian would just understand that Milkoviches don't get to care about people or have people who care about _them_ in their lives, and they sure as hell don't deserve to; Milkoviches can fight and fuck – they can even have dreams, as long as they're tucked away in a dark space that'll never see the light – but they don't get to love. 

#11 | n̸aḿe͜ : There's a shirt spread out innocently on Mickey's bed that wasn't there before when he gets out of the shower, and when he gets close enough [to see what the deal is](http://i.imgur.com/gBjYL3S.jpg?1), he's red-faced for all of five seconds before he snatches it up, muttering, "Very fuckin' funny, shithead."

#12 | s͟e͢ņs͠ua̶l : Gallagher's got a nice dick, alright, and Mickey isn't always this thirsty, but when Ian pops his button, drops his pants and Mickey's eyes flick down, he can already feel that hot ache in his jaw as it's held open and stretched and that soreness in his knees from kneeling on the hard ground as he let's Ian fuck his mouth, and he can't stop himself from licking his lips eagerly.

#13 | ḑe̸àt̕h : Mickey's seven when his first friend, a rat he'd not so creatively dubbed Killer, dies; he walks to the playground a few blocks away after dark to bury the rodent in his favourite place by the swings, and only realizes he's not alone like he thought when a hand lands on his shoulder, and he turns to see a boy with freckles and big, earnest eyes sitting next to him in a kind of solemn companionship that only two strangers who both know the hollow pang of loss can understand.

#14 | s͝e͝x̡ : " _Shiiit_ man," Lip says when Ian turns around to open his dresser drawer, whistling as he counts ten deep, pinkish-red lines from Ian's shoulder blades to the middle of his back that can only come from one thing; Ian's purposely vague when Lip asks him what animal attacked him last night, unwilling to reveal anything except _just a guy I know_ , but he grins at his feet when Lip calls him a stud and accepts the high five he throws him.

#15 | to̸uch̶ : "Christ, you got fuckin' ripped," Mickey mutters, voice thick with appreciation as he watches Ian do pull-ups in the door frame; Ian holds his gaze for the next set of five, ego stroked nice under the attention and muscles straining, before letting go and pushing Mickey against the wall, pinning his wrists up above his head and plastering himself to Mickey's front, thigh forcing its way between Mickey's, pure power and arousal thrumming through him when Mickey's breath stutters and he bites his lip.

#16 | weak͡nes̷s͏ : They don't do it face to face very often because when they do it's hard to keep things impersonal and just about the fucking; the eye contact is too much for Mickey to handle because Ian always looks like he's trying to get under Mickey's skin, disconnecting pieces of him until he can reach the place Mickey keeps locked up tight, taking him apart until he's naked in a way that's got nothing to do with clothes.

#17 | t͜e͡a̴rs̴ : Mickey knows when it comes to emotional shit he's a colossal screwup, but seeing Gallagher cry is one of the one things that really fucks with his head, makes his blood boil wondering who's responsible at the same time he just wants Gallagher to quit it, makes him step forward and mutter a helpless, "Ian, hey, don't," and lead them to a secluded place where he'll let Ian wrap his arms around him and fuck Mickey the way he wants until his eyes are dry and all he's thinking about is what they're doing, here and now.

#18 | śpe͟ed͠ : "'Ey, slow down," Mickey says, his grip involuntarily tightening around Ian's middle and his thighs tensing as Ian pushes the motorbike on harder, faster, the sound of the purring engine and the wind so loud he has to yell to be heard, but Ian doesn't listen to him anyway, just takes one hand off the handlebar for a split second to give Mickey's crossed forearms a reassuring squeeze and yells back ecstatically, "We're almost there!"

#19 | w҉ind̕ : They don't open the bedroom window a lot because it sticks and the latch is broken, but tonight the air in the house is so muggy and suffocating that Ian can't leave it closed; he isn't expecting to see Mickey standing in his front lawn after he's forced the window up and he definitely isn't expecting the rock that hits him in the eye, and Mickey laughs, because he's a jerk, but Ian still comes down to see him and wipes the smirk right off his face when he calls him _Romeo_.

#2o | fre͡e͠do͏m̡ : "Jesus, Mickey— " Ian catches him when he stumbles, keeping him from face planting as he coughs up blood all over the Gallaghers' raggedy welcome mat, and instead of waiting for the inevitable questions he gasps out, "I killed him, I fucking _killed_ the son of a bitch," and leaves _before he could finish me_ because suddenly everything goes dark and the last thing he sees, it's the color of Gallagher's stupidly pretty green eyes and the shape of his mouth saying Mickey's name.

#21 | li͢f͘e̡ : Mickey doesn't know when the redhead stopped being Gallagher and Firecrotch to him and became Ian, but the first time he says it out loud, Ian freezes and blinks like he's trying to figure out if he imagined it or not, and his mouth is hanging open like a doofus so Mickey pushes past him, knocking their shoulders together and repeating, " _Ian_ , you comin' or not?"

#22 | j̴èaloųs̸y : Mickey takes a pull from his beer, thumbs the edge of his mouth and watches the bartender flip off some twink who's giving him attitude; he quirks a smile at Mickey when he catches him looking and Mickey's gaze quickly returns to his beer, uncharacteristically flustered; he grunts in surprise a few seconds later when an arm slides around his waist from behind and pulls him back against a hard chest, mutters, "Fucking hell, Gallagher," in a strangled voice when his head is tilted to one side and teeth sink possessively into his neck.

#23 | ḩand̀s͝ : "No — here, you're holding him wrong," Ian says, arms circling Mickey's and rearranging his hands so they're cradling the baby instead of hanging limply; Mickey is surprisingly silent, frowning deeply and allowing the corrections without complaint, and Ian presses the curve of his gentle smile to the side of Mickey's head before lowering his hands and letting him take over, watching him and murmuring, "Yeah, that's it, that's good."

#24 | tas̸te҉ : He's completely wasted off his ass one night when he asks Ian if he can taste his freckles, like they'd even _have_ any taste when they're just skin, but when he pushes Gallagher down onto the bed and straddles him, gets his mouth on that neck that vibrates under him with a _yeah, mm_ and that jaw and those lips – where he knows a few of them are – whatever he was thinking about gets swallowed up in the slick slide of their mouths.

#25 | d͢e͡v͘ot͝ion : Mickey isn't what anybody would call classically handsome – he's got skin like spilt milk and a broad forehead, crude tattoos and a map of scars littered across his body – but Ian finds him beautiful anyway; he'll never tell Mickey what he thinks in his head, all the praise he feels like giving when he's got Mickey's body under his lips and eyes and hands, but he knows some of it leaks through the cracks, revealing itself in his actions and in the looks he gives him.

#26 | f͠oŗev̵eŕ : "He may be a big asshole but I've got a big dick, so... I mean, we're practically made for each other," Ian says with a shrug, and when Lip chokes on his inhale and laughs, almost drops his cigarette, Ian feels like he's temporarily won the argument over why any human being would want to sleep with Mickey Milkovich (even if, privately, he knows that isn't the truth).

#27 | b́l̴o̷od͝ : It takes him half an hour to get the pieces of glass from the bathroom mirror out of his skin, blood trickling down his arm as he goes at it with a pair of Mandy's tweezers, but a few days later he's still feeling an uncomfortable twinge that means he missed one, and he prods and picks around but he never finds it; the wound scabs over and the universe is having a big laugh at him now, because the piece is stuck under his skin, just like Ian is.

#28 | s̸icknes̷s : "Quit starin' and eat your fuckin' chicken soup," Mickey snaps, and he's about ready to shove Gallagher's snotty face into the steaming bowl – it came from a fucking can, it's not that special – when Ian finally picks up the spoon, grins dopily at him, and starts to eat.

#29 | m҉e͞lo̕d͢y : This isn't music, this dancy techno shit, but somehow Ian's talked him into moving to it with him – and it's hot, he'll admit; they're grinding, practically dry humping up on each other in public and nobody gives a fuck, if anything the old pervs are eating it up – and man, when it's just Ian they're ogling, trying to get their dirty paws on him for themselves, he hates it, but when it's Ian's hands on _his_ hips and ass like a brand claiming _we're together_ , he fucking wants them to stare.

#3o | s͢ta̕r : Mickey's never decorated a Christmas tree in his life – not that he can remember anyway, maybe when he was a baby or whatever, when Mom was around – so he ignores Ian as he putters around the scrawny pine they pilfered from someone's backyard with a box of mismatched bulbs, and scowls when Ian pauses between humming jingle bells off-key and loops a piece of silver tinsel around his neck, but when Ian is done and the crooked star is the only decoration left to go on, he looks over at Mickey with his eyebrows raised hopefully and Mickey rolls his eyes and gets up, walks over to him; they put it on together, Mickey standing on his toes to reach, one of Ian's hands resting on the small of his back to keep him steady and the other wrapped around his around the star.

#31 | h̕o͘me : There's a discussion going on in the store one day on the AM station Ian sets the radio to in the mornings, talking about the difference between a house and home – like they aren't both just a place to eat and sleep and piss – and Mickey doesn't understand it at all until he's waking up to warmth along his back and a strong arm holding him close, a hand resting over his heart and soft breath against his neck, and for the first time in his pathetic life he feels safe.

#32 | c̴on̨f̕u̸si̸o̡n : She's got red hair, and if Mickey tilts his head and squints until things get blurry she turns into Ian, grows taller and broader, and instead of squealing while he fucks her he hears bitten off grunts – those boy noises Ian makes that Mickey likes so much – and he's fooling himself good because for a few seconds he truly believes it's Ian, and that makes it worse when bitter reality slams back in.

#33 | f̵e̕a̛r͢ : "Everybody who knows about us thinks I can do better," Ian says, and the fact that it's not a cruel statement – just the honest truth and nothing but – has Mickey flinching before he can turn and hide it; when he croaks out, "Well why fuckin' don't you, then," Ian's silent for a brief moment before he touches the corner of Mickey's furrowed brow and replies, just as serious, "Because I love you."

#34 | light̨ni̵n̵g͜/th͠ún̨d͡er̕ : The house creaks and groans under the weight of the storm outside, the weak structure trembling with every boom of thunder; they fuck like it's their last night alive, slow but with growing urgency, the slap of skin on skin and panting cresting to a frantic level until their last cries are wrung out, dripping wet.

#35 | b͜onds̷ : "What the fuck," Mickey whimpers, as he's suddenly hit by a hot wave of need, heart pounding, the scent of the Alpha he belongs to bringing him to his knees with an ungraceful thump; when he manages to lift his head from its bowed position – with difficulty, stubbornness just barely overcoming that instinct commanding him to _submit submit submit_ – he finds himself already trapped by a wide, penetrating stare and flared nostrils, body so damn close Mickey can feel the heat radiating off the fucker, and he shudders under it as Gallagher breathes out in disbelief, "Mickey, you're my Omega?"

#36 | m̧a̢rkét : If Mickey was a fruit, literally, he thinks he'd be one of those durian things he saw on TV one time when Mandy was hogging the remote so she could watch a cooking show; overpowering and revolting as hell, but once in a blue moon there's that crazy fuck that comes along and actually likes it instead of being afraid of it.

#37 | te̛c̶hn̶o͟lơg͞y : He's flipping through a magazine, some army mag of Ian's that isn't what it says on the tin – it's gay porn, and it just goes to show that Ian's family is just as ghetto-ass and old school as his when he doesn't have a computer he can go to to get off either – and when Ian comes into the room Mickey turns the magazine around so Ian can see the page he's looking at, says, "I probably ain't that flexible but we should try this sometime," and spreads his legs as he takes a drag off his smoke, watching Ian's skin darken in a flush when he replies, "Just say when," with forced nonchalance.

#38 | gift͟ : "Fucking _faster_ already," Mickey demands, pushing his hips back, trying to screw himself onto Ian's slow-moving cock, but Ian grabs him and stills him, holding him in place as he grinds into him, ignoring the embarrassing whine Mickey lets slip and saying in a low, even voice against his ear, "You're not the one in charge here, Mickey, so you'll take what I give you."

#39 | smi̶l̵e : Where smirks and sneers are common and smiles aren't, on the rare occasion Ian can tease a real smile out of Mickey, it's fucking adorable; the way his cheeks puff out and his gums show, and the way his pointy incisors come close to digging into his bottom lip like a wolf with a rabbit caught in its teeth.

#4o | inn͡oc̶en͏c͞e͘ : They're sitting side by side, backs resting against the chain-linked fence by the baseball field and bottlenecks of cheap beer clutched between bruised knuckles, Gallagher's lips pulled wide in a satisfied smile that somehow manages to look innocent _and_ wicked as hell; Mickey stops himself from closing the gap between them by busying himself with his smoke, but he can't quite stop himself from staring, transfixed.

#41 | compl͝et͜i͢o͘n̛ : Mickey's going to blow his load – he's so fucking close to the edge, bent over a stack of milk crates as Ian pounds into him hard enough to lift him to his toes on every thrust – but what tips him over, what he'll never admit to anyone, is when Ian drapes himself across Mickey's back and gets in real deep, kisses the top of his spine and groans his name like a prayer, like Mickey's the best thing he's ever had.

#42 | clo̶u҉ds : "There's a heart," Ian says, pointing to a cloud that Mickey thinks looks more like somebody's ass, but he holds back the comment and his snort as Ian's (heart) cloud breaks up into two separate clouds, nudges him and says, "Nah, I don't think so, Firecrotch."

#43 | sk̷y̧ : Mickey had no way of knowing he'd be such a pussy when it came to flying on a plane because he's never been on one until now, and Gallagher is so fucking calm beside him he feels like an idiot for closing his eyes when they lift off, but if he doesn't he's got no doubt he'll be reaching for that barf bag; when he comes back to awareness Ian's tilted towards him, gaze steady and grounding, hand intertwined with Mickey's under the armrest where nobody can see, and the panic fades.

#44 | h̀e͟aven̶ : "They won't be opening no pearly gates for me, but it ain't 'cause I'm a fag, lady," Mickey tells the woman holding up the sign as he passes by, and it's the only other time since his coming out at the Alibi that he's said anything remotely accepting of himself out loud, and in that moment Ian's too busy being so fucking proud of him to care about anything else.

#45 | he̡l̵ļ : "Beg for it, beg me to stop and I will," Ian says, fingers moving fast and merciless, and Mickey's writhing underneath him, trying to get away and turning so red trying to keep silent he feels like he's going to explode – and then he does, letting out a high-pitched burst of uncontrollable laughter that makes Ian's grin turn predatory, and Mickey's actually crying from it when he finally gasps, "Fuck you Gallagher, fuck you so much _stop_ — Ian, ah shit, _please stop_ ," and those are the magic words because suddenly he can breathe again, and Ian's tugging away the arm he'd thrown over his eyes, cooing, "Aww, baby," and Mickey punches him hard in the shoulder before pulling him down for a violent kiss.

#46 | su̴n : They're well into their second year as an official couple the first time they walk down the street holding hands; Mickey looks left and right, glances over his shoulder – probably seems shifty as fuck but old habits die hard – and then grabs Ian by the wrist, sliding his hand down until they're palm to palm, fingers linked; the unease the PDA brings is worth it when he peeks over and catches Gallagher's expression, bright enough to blind someone.

#47 | m̛o͠on : They're lying in the grass sharing a smoke and reminiscing about stupid shit from their childhoods when Mickey confesses that he used to want to be an astronaught when he was younger, because he'd known he was different even back then but had it in his head that the reason he wasn't like other guys was because he was an alien who'd crashed to earth and belonged in space, but, "Turned out I just like cock," he finishes, and Ian doesn't laugh like he expects, just tells him, "I knew you were human all along," and Mickey's heart thumps in his chest.

#48 | wa̵v͘es : The waves lap at their feet as they lounge on the shore, cool water soothing the hot pads of their toes and heels after hours of roaming the sandy boardwalks; the deep seated ache in Ian's bones that comes from a day of constant activity makes him sigh, a sound of surreal contentment that's only briefly interrupted when Mickey splashes him (later, Ian hoists an unsuspecting Mickey over his shoulders and tosses him screaming into the ocean).

#49 | h̸air : "You smell different," Ian says with a frown – he doesn't like it, something artificial and citrusy burning his nostrils instead of the smoke, sweat, and cheap deodorant he's used to – and Mickey surprises him when he barks out a laugh, answering, "Showered before you came over."

#5o | s̨up̢ern̡o̴va͜ : He feels like a chick on her first date, palms sweaty and stomach flip-flopping like a moron, and no matter that Ian was just being a jackass teasing him earlier, it _does_ feel like a fucking sleepover; the lights are dim and they've been stealing glances and inching closer and closer to each other, so by the time they're halfway through the movie they're thigh to thigh and Ian's arm on the back of the couch drops casually around Mickey, and it's gay as shit but Mickey tilts his chin up to meet Gallagher halfway when he leans down to kiss him and it's amazing, too.


End file.
